


two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl

by dutty (vodka)



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, Jealousy, M/M, Phone Sex, Pink hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodka/pseuds/dutty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Before you hear it somewhere else, I’d just like to say that I’m not actually jealous of you going out to eat with Rio Ferdinand or whatever,” is the first thing Nick says when Harry picks up. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl

**Author's Note:**

> -There is no excuse for this. I am sorry.  
> -Contains traces of Rio Ferdinand  
> -Title is creatively nicked from Pink Floyd's 'Wish You Were Here'.

“Before you hear it somewhere else, I’d just like to say that I’m not actually jealous of you going out to eat with Rio Ferdinand or whatever,” is the first thing Nick says when Harry picks up, not even giving Harry a chance to finish his ‘hello’. He continues whilst Harry attempts to catch up, gone quiet with a puzzled crease deep between his eyebrows. “Fincham’s a right tosser, he is, but you already knew that, so just ignore him. And his bloody Show Bot. Or whatever. I don’t even care.” 

Harry frowns, having a look at the clock on the side table. It’s Tuesday evening, just gone six o’clock, and he doesn’t think it’s likely that Nick’s drunk, as manic as he sounds, but Nick’s been drunk at stranger times. He’s also been just as manic and hard to follow whilst sober. Harry isn’t quite sure what to expect from this call; it’s already off to a bit of an odd start, but if he knows Nick, and he does, then he knows better than to ask if Nick’s been drinking, because there’s nothing Nick hates more than having his strops invalidated. Harry’d prefer if Nick didn’t hang up on him with a huffed ‘never mind.’

“Huh,” Harry says intelligently. He cringes—he’d taken too long to say too little and now it’s awkward. He can practically hear Nick rolling his eyes. “What?” he amends. 

Nick sighs on the other end. “Finchy had Show Bot ask who’s more jealous of you and Rio Ferdinand: me or old Swifty. The correct answer was apparently the both of us, which is absolute rubbish. I felt it was necessary to clear my good name; there’s incriminating audio going round the internet, using my appropriately annoyed response against me. I’m not actually jealous. I don’t care who you go out to dinner or start epic bromances with.” 

Harry sits up in bed, back curved against the pillows he’s got piled against the headboard. He’s done practically fuck all today, thoroughly indulging in one of his rare antisocial moods and even rarer downtime. He’d spent most of the afternoon locked away in his hotel room, stripped down to his pants and lost on the weird part of Youtube, eating scones and fruit he’d nicked from the hotel’s breakfast room before anyone else’d been up. He’s always prone to being a little miserable on the road. Hearing Nick’s voice is making him feel better. It’s also making him feel worse. He misses Nick, even if Nick’s only called him to be ridiculous. 

“Have you been searching yourself on tumblr again?” Harry can’t help but smile. He sort of wishes he were using one of those phones with the curlicue cords so he could twirl it around his finger whilst he’s chatting with Nick, like teenage girls had done in all those older American comedies he’d grown up watching. He remembers seeing Gemma do it, too.

He’s glad Nick can’t read his thoughts; he’s embarrassed just for thinking it. 

Nick scoffs. “Of course not. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Can’t say the same for Aimee, however. Think it’s revenge for me going on about the love bites she’s practically covered Ian in.” 

Harry laughs. “I guess you did deserve it then, even if it _is_ sort of at my expense.” 

“Make it all about you, why don’t you? You’re the one gallivanting off on a world tour and dining with fit footballers like the new Victoria Beckham whilst I stay back, allegedly pining after your amazing teenage prick.” 

“Hm. Rio is pretty fit, now that you mention it. His restaurant’s nice restaurant, too. We should go together sometime. I could introduce you,” Harry says, always up for taking the piss out of Nick whenever he can. 

“Isn’t he married, with kids and everything? Then again, when’s that ever stopped you?” Nick fires back. 

“Heyyyyy.” Harry pulls his mobile away from his ear, glaring at it like it’s Nick’s face. “That wasn’t very nice; I was only joking. Well, sort of. He _is_ quite fit.” 

“Is that why you were prancing around with his shirt on, then? Making sure he got a good look, then carrying the show onto Instagram? Bet you’d have liked him to fuck you with nothing but that on, wouldn’t you?” 

Harry’s eyes widen. He hadn’t expected this call to take this sharp, sudden turn. His breath hitches in his throat, cock fattening up where it’d been resting against his inner thigh. He and Nick are still in the tentative stages of dating or whatever you’d call the thing they’ve got going, but Harry’s learnt that Nick’s love of hearing himself talk extends into the bedroom where he whispers all sorts of filthy things into Harry’s ear, things that Harry’d never thought he’d be into, let alone get off on and beg for. Phone sex is something they’ve not done yet, something Harry’s admittedly always thought would be awkward, but fuck he really does miss Nick and he thinks he might like this. 

He lets out a sharp breath and Nick laughs out a fond ‘Oh, Harold.’

Harry closes his eyes, pictures Nick and his stupid pink hair that Harry quite likes and wants to see in person so he can run it through his fingers and then pull on it. He thinks he’s beginning to understand Zayn’s thing for Perrie’s bright, unnaturally coloured hair. 

Nick keeps talking. “D’you think you’d be able to handle him, though? Bet he’s well hung, and Christ, you’re a tight little thing. He’d have to work at getting you to open up, bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“You’re big, too and you fit me just fine,” Harry says, voice gone thick and raspy as he sticks a hand down his pants, fingers curled loosely around his cock. He doesn’t know when he’d got fully hard, but he supposes it doesn’t matter, doesn’t think much matters at all right now except every dirty word that comes out of Nick’s mouth. “I’d want you there, too, though; maybe you could show him what I like?” 

“So greedy,” Nick laughs, sounding a little shocked and a lot fond. “What would you want me to show him? You’re not particularly hard to please.” 

“I don’t know,” Harry says, whingey to even his own ears because he’s not certain whether or not he’s meant to be offended. “I like it when you fuck me with your fingers, you know, before you fuck me, like, with your dick? It’s always different then, I don’t know.” Harry’s cheeks go pink; he’s rambling and this is probably the worst phone sex Nick’s ever had. Harry doesn’t particularly like when he’s totally out of his element, especially not with Nick because it makes him feel uncomfortably young and like he’s trying too hard and it shows. He wishes they didn’t have to do this; touching’s better, easier than words. And he really just misses Nick’s hands on him. 

But Nick makes a pleased humming sound that makes Harry’s cock pulse hard in his palm. “You’d want me there to get you ready for Rio to fuck you? Finger you and suck you off until you’re shaking and you just want to get fucked? You’d have his shirt on but you’d smell like me when he’s in you, remind you of what you’ve got at home.”

“Christ, Nick,” Harry gasps, lifting his hips up so he can roll his pants down lower on his hips, the waistband where it reads CALVIN KLEIN over and over cinching tight beneath his sac as his cock curves up against his stomach. The head is wet, a smear glistening against his skin. And then he’s touching himself again, foreskin slippery beneath his fingers as he slides it up over the head and then back down, getting a good grip on himself. 

He can hear Nick breathing heavily into his mobile. “Are you touching yourself, Styles?” 

“Yeah.” Harry swallows thickly, eyes slipping shut as he works his hand slowly up and down, trying to spread as much pre-come as he can. “Fuck, I’m never going to be able to look Rio in the face again.” 

“Just how often are you planning on seeing this man?” Nick says, sounding manic again. 

“Niiiiiiick,” Harry groans, frustrated. 

Nick takes a deep breath. Harry can hear him moving about in bed, the rustling of sheets or clothing or both. “Alright, alright; no more Rio. What are you wearing? Have you still got clothes on?” 

“Was just wearing my boxers when you called,” Harry says, palming at himself harder because he thinks they’re getting to the good part now. “Still technically have them on; just pulled them down enough to get my dick out.” 

“Mm. I’ve still got all my clothes on; just got back from playing third wheel at lunch with Ian and Aimee. Just unzipped my trousers and got my cock out, though.”

Harry has to give the base of his cock a hard squeeze, because he thinks he might come from just the picture Nick paints alone—he loves it when Nick keeps all his clothes on when Harry’s playing with his cock, especially when Harry’s naked or nearly there, licking at Nick or tossing him off on his sofa or that one time in the loo at one of the many parties they’d popped in on after the Brit Awards. 

“Wish you were here, want to touch you so bad,” Harry sighs, reaching between his legs to cup his balls. They’re already drawn up tight. He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive once the tour stretches out of the UK; he and Nick are at that tentative stage where they’re not exactly exclusive, but they’re serious enough that getting off with someone else wouldn’t be taken in great stead, would probably ruin everything, really. And if Harry’s honest with himself, he doesn’t _want_ anyone but Nick and his wry sense of humour and lanky body and long fingers and stupid, badly dyed candyfloss hair, and pretty, long-lashed green-brown eyes. 

“Want to touch you, too,” Nick says softly, so earnest that it takes Harry’s breath for a moment. Nick’s always so blasé about _feelings_ ; when he’s not it makes Harry’s head spin and his chest hurt. “You still touching yourself?” 

Harry nods. Then remembers that Nick can’t see him. “Yeah. Are you?” 

“Of course I am; I’ve got a hot pop star on the other line talking dirty to me whilst having a wank.”

Harry laughs. “Next time we fuck, I hope your hair’s still pink.” 

“I look like the fifth member of Little Mix,” Nick says, as deadpan as a man can be with his hand on his prick. “But I guess I’ll have to keep it if some kind of sex is on the line. It sort of matches your arsehole anyway.” 

“Oh my god.”

“It’s a compliment, love, relax. “

Harry’s skin practically burns with embarrassment, cheeks and the tips of his ears gone warm. He’s equal parts turned on and horrified that Nick’s spent so long looking at parts of him that he’s not exactly confident about, even though he supposes it’s not shocking; Nick’s had him face down, arse up and spread more times than he’d care to count, and Nick’s not new to this whole anal sex thing like Harry is, knows what he wants and what he likes, and thoroughly enjoys every moment of it. Fuck, Harry misses him.

“Are you using any slick?” Nick asks, voice gone rough, and Christ, Harry can _hear_ the soft, wet thuds of Nick fucking hard into his own hand, muffled through the connection. Harry licks at his lips, mouth suddenly too dry.

“No,” he says, reaching over to thumb his wallet open where he’d left it out on the side table, one-handed like he seems to be doing everything since getting on the phone with Nick. He gets out the packet of lube that’s tucked into a little pocket next to a condom and a five quid note. 

“You should,” Nick says. “Want you to feel good, pop star.”

Harry tears it open with his teeth, phone held up to his ear by his raised shoulder as he squeezes the lube into his palm. “Got some now. Are you using any?”

“Yeah,” Nick says. His breathing’s faster and louder now. Harry wishes he could see him, all dressed up, probably with his coat still on and his long fingers wrapped around his thick cock. Harry starts jerking off again, and yeah, this really does feel a lot better. All he can hear is Nick’s moans, just loud enough to be heard from where they’re stuck in the back of his throat. Nick talks a lot in bed, but he’s not a groaner or screamer, and Harry finds he likes those quiet reactions just as much as he likes everything else Nick does to him. 

“Really wish I could kiss you right now,” Harry hisses, hips bucking up into his hand and teeth tucked into his bottom lip. 

“Wish I could fuck you right now,” Nick says back. Harry makes a small, not entirely manly whimpering noise. He’s got a good rhythm going now; probably won’t last too much longer, truth be told. 

“You should play with your nipples, too,” Nick continues. “Get some slick on your free hand. Know you love that.” 

And yeah, Harry does. It’s awkward, holding the phone in the crook of his neck as he wets his fingers on the crumpled packet of lube, fucking into one hand and thumbing and pulling at his nipple with the other. He doesn’t know how he’s still able to think clearly; feels like all his blood’s throbbing in his cock. He’s on fire and he wishes Nick were here, doing this to him.

“You got those fingers on your nipple yet?” 

“Yeah, fuck, Nick, I’m so close.” 

“Me, too, Harry,” Harry moans at the way Nick says his name, loves to hear Nick say it when they’re getting each other off, no nicknames or anything, just _Harry_. “Think you can get any come on that ridiculous butterfly tattoo of yours?” 

And that’s all it takes. Harry’s hand is moving so fast he’s got to squeeze onto his cock to make sure it doesn’t fly off, making a sudden, harsh choking noise as he comes, eyes shut and mouth open. 

“Christ, did you just come?” Nick sounds amazed. 

“Looks that way,” Harry laughs, winded and looking down at himself where his fingers are still curled around his softening cock and there’s come all over his belly. A little bit of spunk actually did make it onto the butterfly. He tells Nick. Nick curses and then he’s coming, too. 

“You should take a picture; I’d love to see that,” Nick says once he’s caught his breath. Harry thinks he just might after Nick hangs up. “I’ve always wanted to come on that thing, but you coming on it is just as hot. Maybe after you take that picture, you can take another one, licking some of it off your fingers? You do taste quite good.” 

“Oh my god,” Harry barks out a laugh because he doesn’t know what else to do, one of his nipples already starting to get tight again and his cock giving an interested little twitch. Nick’s going to be the death of him.

“Look at us, being lads with my pink hair and your butterfly tattoos. Can’t wait to see you, pop star.”

Harry smiles, trying not to curl in on himself and hug his pillow like he always hugs Nick after they’ve fucked, spooning up behind him and tucking his chin over Nick’s shoulder, because that’s sappy and a little pathetic and he also doesn’t want to smear the come on his belly before getting Nick his dirty pictures. It’s the least he can do, what with being the worst sort-of boyfriend ever and being gone all the time. “I’ll be home next week.” 

“Good. You’re going to be walking even more uncoordinated after I’m done with you,” Nick says, breaking into a yawn towards the end. Harry’s struck with that urge to kiss him again. “Think I’m going to have a lie-in—I’m too old to keep up with you.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, fond nonetheless; Nick’s always going on about being ‘old’. “You’re not old, Nick,” Harry says like he always does. “You’ve just been up all day. Besides, wasn’t this whole jealous phone sex thing your idea?”

“Meh,” Nick says, mature as always. “I’ve got to clean up before these jeans are even more ruined. Are you going to take those pictures for me?” 

“Yeah. I’ll do it now before it gets all cold and disgusting.” 

Nick laughs. “Bless. I’ll shout you later, pop star.” 

“Yeah, alright. Bye, love you.” 

“Love you, too. Oh, and I wasn’t jealous. I wish everyone would stop saying that!” 

And then Nick’s gone, and Harry misses him already. 

He sends incongruously sappy texts along with the dirty pictures.


End file.
